


Cloak of Elvenkind

by unknownsister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Kidlock, Magic, Off-Screen Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3799237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/pseuds/unknownsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only four people in the world know Sherlock Holmes is a warlock. Two are his parents. Another is Mycroft. The fourth is a nameless boy from Sherlock's new school who sees him levitate a stray cat when he is ten years old. He dropped the cat and the boy ran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cloak of Elvenkind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [intricatearticulation (chemma66)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/gifts), [avawatson (avawtsn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avawtsn/gifts).



> Written for the delightful [avawatson](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/) & [intricatearticulation](http://intricatearticulation.tumblr.com/) who make me smile & laugh on a regular basis, so I wanted to give something back. Every one was a bit down last week, so I wanted to bring some more fluff into the fandom. Here's the result after listening to a Marcy Playground song. All mistakes are my own. Come say hello on [tumblr](http://unknownsister.tumblr.com/)!

 

 

 

  
_A cloaking robe of elvenkind_  
_Hangs in my wardrobe behind_  
_All those things that mother_  
_Said were proper for a boy_  
_And I know I could not say why_  
_On this summer evening_  
_Sixteen books on magic spells_  
_Stacked below the cloak of elves_  
_And sixteen books on magic spells_  
_So elegantly bound_  
_And I know I could not say why_  
_On this summer evening_  
_And I know something...something about you_  
_And I know something...something about you_

  
_A cloaking robe of elvenkind_  
_Hangs in my wardrobe behind_  
_All those things that mother said_  
_Were proper for a boy_

 

\- ["Cloak of Elvenkind" by Marcy Playground](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rFG5Dd6EF1k)

 

Only four people in the world know Sherlock Holmes is a warlock. Two are his parents. Another is Mycroft. The fourth is a nameless boy from Sherlock's new school who sees him levitate a stray cat when he is ten years old. He dropped the cat and the boy ran.

Sherlock went home afterward and stayed up late into the night reading about cloaking spells and manipulation to deceive others into thinking he was normal. No matter how hard he tried, he soon found that it wasn't the static spark of magic around him keeping the other children away. Possessed of a sharp mind and a sharper tongue, it wasn't easy for the him to make friends.

When the boy comes to his lonely table at lunch, Sherlock doesn't look up. He's lost or here to make fun of Sherlock. He turns the page of his book and ignores the quiet shuffling of the boy sitting down. He finds the hand in his face harder to ignore.

“Hello. I'm John.”

His mother always tells him to be more polite, that he won't make any friends if he continues scowling so much. Mycroft tells him his face is going to get stuck that way. Sherlock turned his alarm clock into half a frog for the advice (he can't quite manage full transformations yet). Despite being polite, his family was all very secretive, as people with secrets tend to be. Sherlock's natural reaction to the proffered hand is to turn further away and drag his book with him.

But he can't make himself leave the table just yet.

The boy – John – pulls his hand back, but tucks into his lunch without another word. The bell sounds, he picks up his tray with a wave at Sherlock, and he disappears into the crowd of schoolchildren.

Sherlock hopes he can feel his glare on the back of his tow head.

oOo

Sherlock doesn't go back to the lunchroom the next day. He finds a spot behind the school, close to the playground and tucks against the cement block wall with his book. He can read the real books out here, histories of magic passed through his family. Mycroft called them hand-me-down books but Father insisted they were 'heirlooms.' Sherlock's already read this one but he's not allowed to have a tutor yet, so he reads the yellow pages again and again.

A shadow falls across his studies and he snaps the book shut.

“What are you reading?”

John drops to the grass beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The elbows are patched on his shirt and his face is scrubbed clean with the scent of cheap soap Sherlock recognizes from the school washrooms. He fixes his eyes on his own scuffed shoes and turns to put away his book.

“Is that a book about wizards?”

Sherlock's heart kicks in his skinny chest. He looks over his shoulder, worried that he's ruined everything. He measures his response carefully.

“Why would you think that?”

John grins at him.

“Cause you made that cat float.”

Sherlock feels terribly sick to his stomach and returns to his backpack, gathering up the last of his things.

“I did not.”

He bolts to his feet, but John follows close behind.

“You did. I saw you.”

Sherlock walks faster – maybe he can skip the rest of the school day. Maybe the whole month.

“Hey, wait!”

His neck jerks as John snatches the handle on his backpack, pulling him to a halt. He wobbles, unbalanced before spinning to yell. His magic burns close to the surface, buzzing under his skin like the charged air before a storm. The grass ripples by his feet and he does the quiet breathing exercise his mother taught him to reign everything back in.

John didn't notice the grass and Sherlock calms down enough to remember his cloaking spells shift and swirl around him - protection for him and for John. He keeps his eyes closed until they return to their normal color.

“I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to grab you like that. I just want to know your name.”

Sherlock feels the buzz come closer to the surface, his fingertips tingling and his back teeth humming. Why does he want to know his name? Knowing someone's name was one of the most powerful things you could give to someone, especially if it was directly from Sherlock's mouth. What if John wanted to hurt him?

He scans the boy before him, reaching out with his magic in tiny wisps, but he finds no answering spark coming from John. He just sees a boy his age, gold from countless hours spent playing outside, holding out his hand again.

Sherlock swallows and looks down at it.

“Sherlock.”

He shakes John's hand and it feels very grown up. He quickly lets go and leaves John to stand behind the building by himself like an idiot.

oOo

His mother asks after his studies while she fixes him an after-school snack. He gives her all the same answers ('Fine, it was fine. Fine. Dull.') while he spins a glass cup in lazy circles beside his head. Levitation was something he'd recently nailed down – the cat was the first live thing he'd practiced on – and he was keen to use it at every opportunity. Mycroft scoffed but Sherlock had learned this particularly skill much earlier in life than his brother and he used it every opportunity he got in front of him. His mother tsks.

“Well, I'm not sure why we have you in school at all if you're so bored with it. I thought this one might be better. Maybe we can find you a tutor earlier rather than later.”

The first thing Sherlock thinks of is John.

“I met a boy today.”

His mother doesn't stop what she's doing but he can practically see her ears perk up. She's deliberately, overly casual.

“Oh? What's his name?”

“John.”

“John what?”

Sherlock opens his mouth but closes it, letting the cup gently land on the counter next to him.

“I don't know.”

“That would be the polite thing to find out.”

Sherlock scowls. He hates that word – polite. Useless.

His mother sets a plate of biscuits on the counter and he takes one when she has her back turned.

oOo

Sherlock definitely doesn't look for John the next day when he arrives at school. He doesn't notice his older sister with him, doesn't observe the lack of backpack on her shoulders, and definitely doesn't see the wide berth other children are giving them.

The sister parts without a second glance back at John.

He sees John again in the hall, shifting his notebooks and smiling at unobservant classmates who pass him by.

Sherlock feels a pang in his stomach that has nothing to do with his magic.

Following John to the library is easy and finding his name on the check-out system takes seconds.

John Watson, the only other boy in school who might be as lonely as him.

oOo

From a very young age, Sherlock's family instilled in him that he was different than other children. His magic was ancient and meant to be kept to themselves to do good as they saw the opportunity. When Sherlock was five he screamed in the family car loud enough that all four tires burst. His mother tried to rein in her irritation when dealing with the concerned policeman while his father brushed his curls and told him everything was alright.

He holds vivid memories of that day, frightened and clinging to his father while the tow truck came. It was the first day he recognized what his magic actually felt like. While it curled dormant and low and sweet in his belly and the crown of his head, it felt stronger than him.

He had seen his mother discreetly sweep back rainclouds at family picnics, his father talk to animals, his brother change the color of his trousers to suit his mood. Sherlock couldn't quite manage all these things yet, but he wanted to shove his magic in the faces of spiteful children at school. Let them call him mad after he cursed them all to rats. Maybe half-rats. He hated hiding what he was and frequently let his family know his displeasure in the form of scratchy recitals on his violin.

At the same time, he doesn't want anyone to look at him at all. Alone is what he has and it's the way he wants to stay, so it confuses him when he finds himself missing John Watson. No matter where Sherlock sat during lunch break, John would find him. Most of the time, John did all the talking – football, his Tolkien books, which action figure he wanted – but sometimes Sherlock would answer too. John was … tolerable.

Now Sherlock was fidgeting. It was halfway through lunch break and John was nowhere to be seen. Despite how messy his room was, Sherlock liked order and routine and John was disrupting the schedule he had forced upon Sherlock.

He can't even focus on his book, so he stuffs it into his pack and starts walking the perimeter of the school. John is nowhere to be found. Surreptitiously checking faces in the hallways, Sherlock doesn't find John there either. He frowns his way through the rest of the day. Perhaps John was sick.

oOo 

John shows up to school the next day with a spectacular black eye. As soon as Sherlock sees it, he knows it's not from football practice. As the realization settles over him, a loud hiss takes over his hearing and a nearby window develops a hairline crack. The startled gasps of those around him bring him back to his body, his cloaking spells hiding the waves of power coming off him, but not shielding the flashing gold of his eyes. He stomps to his first class, stomach squirming as he thinks about seeing John at lunch. He wasn't sure what he would do when he saw him up close.

But for the second day in a row, there's no John at lunch. Sherlock knows he's there somewhere and scans the lunch room before heading outside. He sees John sitting under a tree near the science wing, his knees pulled to his chest and his food picked over beside him. Sherlock suddenly isn't sure what to do.

It's not like he really _knows_ John – they don't share any classes. They don't have any sports teams or academic clubs together. But Sherlock knows that John doesn't like apples (the skin texture is too waxy) and that he wants a collie puppy some day and that he's saving up for the new Donatello figure, his favorite Ninja Turtle. Sherlock _wants_ to call him his friend, which is a feeling he's never had before.

He's been standing there, openly staring at John and he startles when the boy looks up.

“Sherlock?”

He flickers, invisibility dispersing his image on instinct because he is afraid. John definitely saw that, which makes him panic even further. John stands, mouth slack and eyes roving back and forth across the space where Sherlock stood seconds before.

Embarrassed, Sherlock knows his face is burning. He sprints past John and hides behind the tree, pressing his face to the cool bark with his mind racing. As he does his breathing exercises, he slowly fades into view, his colors returning like ink in water. His heart rate slows. A touch on his shoulder nearly makes him vanish again, his fingers scraping on the tree as he spins around.

He expected John to definitely run, much like he had before. People didn't just _disappear_ like that, it was definitely not normal and John should have been afraid of him. Instead his face is lit up, the dark hollow around his eye in stark contrast to his glowing look of awe. He brushes his hand down Sherlock's sleeve and swallows, shaking his head.

“How... That … was amazing!”

Sherlock can't believe his ears.

“Amazing?”

“Incredible! Yes! How cool was that! You just – you went POOF! Gone!! I _knew_ you were magic!”

“I'm not –”

John shoves lightly at his chest, laughing.

“Oh no you don't. You're not getting out of that one.”

He yanks Sherlock down to the grass, his feet crossed tailor-style, right in the middle of Sherlock's space. If he had a tail, it would be wagging and Sherlock briefly entertains the idea of giving him one. John interrupts his thoughts with more questions.

“How long have you been magic? Is it something you learned? Are you the only one? Can you teach me? How did you make that cat float? Can you make _me_ float?”

Sherlock sits before this boy, blinking, overwhelmed. This was not the reaction he was expecting.

“Aren't you... afraid of me?”

John leans back on his hands and snorts.

“Why would I be afraid of you?”

“This is not the reaction I've gotten in the past.”

It's John's turn to frown.

“What was the reaction?”

“I – lost control at my old school. One of my classmates. He did not react like you.”

Sherlock doesn't mention the work of his father in undoing those particular memories for the other boy.

John touches his hand in sympathy and Sherlock goes rigid. Bare skin contact floods him with empathy, his least favorite part of magic and the one he works hardest to control. He feels John's concern, but underneath that, great sorrow, incredible strength and deep loneliness. They swirl together, unfocused, and Sherlock feels the fog of someone else's life seeping into him.

Pulling back his hand with a gasp, he stares at John who stares right back. It gives him a chance to really study the black eye and he looks down at his hands. His mother says his magic is to be used for good as he saw fit. Surely a tiny healing spell was doing good? He lets the dizziness pass before he speaks again.

“John, may I do something?”

John rolls his eyes but nods. Sherlock lifts his palm towards John's brow and the boy flinches. Sherlock stops, hand hovering.

“I promise not to hurt you.”

Blue eyes meet his own as he pulls his magic up, up, up, centering it to radiate heat and healing. John's eyes widen and he knows his own have gone a pale gold; he closes them to concentrate on the damaged flesh. This was not something he was well-studied in, but the soft glow from his palm told him it was working, at least a little. John holds wonderfully still beneath his ministrations and when Sherlock pulls back, only a light ring of yellow remains.

He lets his breath out all at once and falls back, exhausted. Healing was not an area he trained in often, but he was glad for his rudimentary knowledge as John touches his fingers to skin, barely brushing. They breathe quietly together, dappled sunlight waving across their trousers.

John touches his brow once more before standing up and Sherlock's stomach drops. Maybe that was the final straw. His throat clenches as he realizes he doesn't want John to forget him. He opens his mouth to apologize, but John speaks first.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock clambers to his feet, just an inch or so taller than the other boy. John finally looks up at him and he's smiling, albeit smaller than before.

“That was very good of you.”

The bell shrills before Sherlock can respond and John leaves his tray and a speechless Sherlock behind.

oOo

The two of them are inseparable after Sherlock heals John. They study in the library under the guise of Sherlock tutoring John, but Sherlock sneaks in his own books. They pore over the spells and John takes a keen interest in the herbology guides, fascinated that something as commonplace as plants could create magic. He has a million questions for Sherlock and when he doesn't know the answer to something, he goes home to ask his mother or father and returns with answers the next day.

He frames his questions so as not to arouse suspicion, but he thinks he might talk about John a little too much for them not to be wary. He can't help it; John is curious and interesting and Sherlock never gets bored talking to him. He spends the day looking forward to lunch so they can sit outside and Sherlock makes John laugh by turning his dark curls green or giving himself cat ears.

Sherlock loves sharing his magic with John, who never judges him when he messes up or when he can't explain. For the first time, his magic feels like it's actually done something truly good – his secret is split between two now, electric currents flowing through him freely and without the constant looming fear of ruining everything. He feels more natural in his skin and as much as John tells him he's amazing, he's just as in awe of John.

During one of these lunches, John lies on his stomach, picking the grass out of his hair (that Sherlock dropped there) and kicking his heels lazily. He studies a blade, not looking at Sherlock while he speaks.

“Do you think we could try something?”

Sherlock hums, flipping another page of his book, his legs stretched out beside John while he leans against their tree.

“Could you make me levitate like when I first saw you? I know you don't like to use magic on me – except for that one time. But you said you were so good at it and I thought...”

John looks up while Sherlock stares at him. He frowns and starts plucking up his own handfuls of green.

“Forget it. I didn't mean anything by it.”

“No. We can meet at the park this afternoon.”

John rolls over and up, barely resting on his haunches as he bounces with excitement.

“Really? Which park?”

Sherlock tells him and when they go back to their classes, he watches the clock tick slowly by for the rest of the day.

oOo

When they meet at the swing-sets, Sherlock leads John towards the back of the park where the neatly shorn grass edges against a forest. The trees smell clean and the soil underneath teems with little pinpricks of magic that Sherlock feels like butterfly wings against his skin.

He brought John here because these tiny spots would hopefully give him a boost in his already considerable skill. But levitating a glass or a book or a cat was very different than levitating a whole human boy and Sherlock couldn't help the nerves fluttering in his stomach. He breathes and focuses on John's excited grin.

“So where do I need to stand? Is here alright?”

Sherlock waves a hand as he begins to concentrate.

“Yes, that's fine. Just hold still.”

John's practically buzzing with his barely contained happiness, so Sherlock tries to block him out and draw his magic underneath John's trainers. A tiny gasp interrupts his thoughts for a second and he sees what surprised John – leaves and twigs are swirling around his feet, ruffling the cuffs of his jeans. Sherlock pushes harder, twisting the air around them until he feels light-headed. He looks up to see John's fringe rising off his forehead, his shirt puffing off his chest.

John wobbles and Sherlock reaches for him but doesn't touch him as he starts to rise off the ground. His short laugh is one of pure joy and it fuels Sherlock to try harder, lifting him just an inch or two higher, even as it makes the sweat pop on his brow. He feels it sliding down his neck as his entire body vibrates, an engine roaring in his chest as he strains his magic like he's never done before.

“Sherlock! I'm floating! You're doing it!”

Sherlock tries to smile, but it makes John sway even more and Sherlock lurches forward just as he falls, grabbing John around the middle to keep him held in mid-air. The leaves and sticks fall in a neat circle around them. Sherlock feels sick with failure – he barely got John a foot off the ground.

With his face buried in John's middle, he can feel the boy laughing. John ruffles his hair and wiggles loose, his smile enough to fuel the sun. He hugs Sherlock fiercely.

“Brilliant. Sherlock, you're brilliant. I'm so glad you're my friend.”

Sherlock's cheeks stay pink until he goes to bed that night.

oOo

When John shows up to school with a limp one day, Sherlock makes a decision. He invites John over to spend the night and they walk home from school together. Sherlock buys two candy bars from the shop at his corner and while he devours his right away, John eats his piece by piece, methodically enjoying every bite. By the time they reach Sherlock's house, their fingers are sticky and they're on a slight sugar high, ready to read the comics John shoved in his backpack for tonight.

His mother cooks them dinner and his parents are enchanted with John, as Sherlock knew they would be. He even catches Mycroft occasionally smiling. John volunteers them to help with the washing up and Mother beams at them both while raising an eyebrow at Sherlock's sighing.

They make it upstairs to Sherlock's bedroom and sprawl on the floor, spellbooks mixing with comics and Sherlock's sketchbook and John's action figures. Hours tick by and Sherlock is never bored once, which only cements his idea further.

When John starts yawning, Sherlock stands up and goes to his closet. John rolls over on Sherlock's bed, looking at him upside down, one stocking foot hanging off the side.

“What'cha doing?”

Sherlock opens the doors and starts pulling aside clothing as John gets up and leans against the wall next to him.

“I've got a gift for you.”

John peeks around the corner and Sherlock knows his curiosity is piqued. Lining the bottom of his closet are neat rows of large books that Sherlock guards very carefully. They are the oldest books he owns and his father says that even touching these will influence different types of magic. He gets one on his birthday or on very special occasions and they are his proudest possessions.

Leaning in, John reaches over to run a finger down the ornate spine and he pulls his hand back quickly, staring up at Sherlock.

“It shocked me!”

Sherlock grins and reaches past the books, snagging a brown cloak and turning off the light in the closet. He gestures John to sit on the floor before him as he drapes the cloth around his shoulders. John yawns again and questions again.

“What's that?”

“It's a cloak.”

“Well, thank you. I can see that. What's special about it?”

“It's magic. It protects people.”

“From what?”

“From whatever might harm you.”

John goes quiet and looks at the cloak warily, unsure of what Sherlock's trying to say.

Sherlock drops to the floor beside John and spreads the cloak on their legs so they can study it. Up close, there's a fine filigree of Celtic swirls embroidered into the material with gold thread. As Sherlock shifts the material, the designs glint and seem to move and change before their eyes. John touches a few fingers to it reverently while Sherlock clears his throat.

“I want you to have this.”

John snatches back his fingers and rears at Sherlock's words.

“What?! I can't take this. It's got to be a thousand years old!”

“Consider it a loan, then. I want you to take it with you when you go home.”

“Why would you give this to me?”

“Because...”

Sherlock lies back on the floor and pulls the cloak up to hide his face so he doesn't have to look at John while he confesses.

“Because I don't want you to get hurt anymore. Because I care about you and whoever is hurting you at home is terrible and when I'm older, I'll have all my skills and I'll turn them into a cow for you. You can't get hurt anymore, John. I won't let you. You're my...”

John shifts and lies down too, pulling the cloak over his head so he and Sherlock hide together. The dimness of Sherlock's bedside lamp gives him barely enough light through the material to see John's face, but the glint of his teeth shows that he's smiling.

“You're my best friend, too.”

Sherlock's stomach flips and he grins back, happiness flooding him in a way his magic usually does. He pulls his arm under his head as he turns to face John, lying side by side as they whisper under the cloak. He tells John about the history of the piece and how Mycroft gave it to him when he was small and the rules by which he can protect himself. He can't make John magic, but he can give him what he has and that will have to be enough for now, until Sherlock figures out something better. Sherlock tells John about the time he ran away to go camping in the backyard with this cloak and they drift off mid-sentence, quiet snores in a quiet bedroom. The cloak flutters and grows a few inches to cover their legs and keep them warm.

Mrs. Holmes pokes her head in to check on them and finds their feet sticking out from underneath the cloak, a boy's mess all over the room. She picks up a few toys, stowing them on Sherlock's dresser before gently floating both boys off the floor and onto Sherlock's bed. Neither wake and she pulls the cloak down slightly, smoothing unruly tufts of black and blond. She pauses to touch the cloak once and smiles before clicking off the lamp and closing the door behind her.

 

 


End file.
